


Professor Layton and the Unlikely Refuge

by a_mere_trifle



Series: Professor Layton and the Gentleman's Treason [11]
Category: Layton Kyouju Series | Professor Layton Series
Genre: Action, Backstory, Character Study, Gen, archaeology mafia, don paolo hears about the events of Azran Legacy and is judging everyone involved, finally it's don paolo backstory time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:55:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24123208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_mere_trifle/pseuds/a_mere_trifle
Summary: Don Paolo and Professor Layton are forced to desperate measures to evade capture."Layton, if our only recourse is the puzzle mafia," said Paul, "I think I might prefer death."
Series: Professor Layton and the Gentleman's Treason [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/987004
Comments: 3
Kudos: 21





	Professor Layton and the Unlikely Refuge

\--

Professor Layton did not think that newspapers should stoop to sensationalistic headlines, and the increasingly common use of exclamation points and attention-grabbing oversimplifications quite nettled him. Still, he had to admit that the headline of _Escape From Wandsworth Prison!_ might deserve its punctuation. 

Just as well it wasn’t Newgate; while Clive might not be precisely safe there, he wasn’t sure it would be wise to set the young man free unattended, either-- not in this political climate. And Bronev, well-- the less said, the better.

Still, it had driven him from the front pages, and for that he couldn’t help but be grateful. Even as recently as the morning edition…. Well, it didn’t bear thinking about. 

He skimmed the story; somehow a man had both injured a guard and escaped in the prison’s laundry shipment. Or no, the story was of several prisoners-- a few who had made a violent and dramatic attempt at the gates, and another who had apparently taken advantage of the distraction as cover for his own attempt. He wondered why the story wasn’t naming them. Surely the public needed to be informed? Perhaps they were still ascertaining the details.

“There you are,” said Paul. “Come on, let’s not waste time.”

Layton greeted him with a nod, tucking his newspaper beneath his arm. They started toward the warehouse. It would be a few minutes’ walk from here, but Layton enjoyed the exercise. Paul did not seem nearly as enthusiastic about the exercise, but approved of the ability to take less predictable paths, as well as the lessened expense.

Paul nodded at the newspaper. “You saw you’ve been bumped from the front page?”

“I did.”

He didn’t bother to hide the relief in his voice, and Paul scoffed. “What, now you’re shy of a little media attention?”

“Was I ever not?”

“Says the Puzzle Professor?”

“I told you, I had no say in--”

“Oh, stuff it, it’s too early in the day for ridiculous lies.” 

Layton didn’t bother protesting Paul’s unfair characterization; he already knew it would be fruitless. However, he could not let such an obvious factual error slide. “It’s almost tea-time, Paul.”

“That sort of absurd fabrication is only remotely acceptable three shots past ten, and not a minute sooner.”

Layton sighed and shook his head. This was not an argument he was going to win-- at least, not any time soon. One could view it as another skirmish in a long campaign; that he still held some hopes for, but it would be no easy victory.

After a few moments, Paul nodded at the newspaper again. “D’you think we had any friends at that party?”

Party? What an odd way to describe it. And why be so circumspect? It was a public street, even if a lightly-trafficked one; they were highly unlikely to be surveilled here. “I believe most of our friends are at another location,” said Layton, “though I’m not privy to the exact details. Well, my friends, at any rate. I don’t know if you might have other acquaintances in the area.”

“I’m not exactly a social butterfly, Layton.” 

“I suppose I should have expected as much.” His eye was caught by a flutter of motion on the rooftop to his right. It might have been a bird.

“I was thinking of the last time you went to a casino,” said Paul. “Mind you, I wasn’t there, but I’ve heard of it.”

“I recall telling you.” The slot-machine gun. He couldn’t produce another of those right now, but he almost wanted to. Something felt wrong. 

“You made so many friends,” he said. “I suppose you’ve always been that sort. People all over you, everywhere you go.”

“More of late, I believe,” said Layton. He was fairly certain the words they were saying and the conversation they were having bore only passing similarities to each other.

Paul nodded. “Have you a birthday party coming up?”

“I certainly hope not. I’m not much for parties.”

“Nor I. Particularly surprise parties. Wanton acts of cruelty.” Paul grimaced. “If I walked into one of those, I’d run straight back out again.”

“It would be a little late by that point,” Layton pointed out.

“Perhaps if I started preparing sooner, then,” said Paul. “Had a distraction to fling in the opposite direction.”

Fair enough, but what after that? “It would have to be something you didn’t mind losing, unless you were certain you could find it again.”

“That it would,” said Paul. “Then, there’s some things you can neer seem to escape no matter how hard you try. Pick something you actually half wanted to be rid of and I’ve no doubt it’d find a way to cross your path again.”

Rude, but fair enough. All right. He nodded, and nestled his hands deeper into his pockets. Two more steps, just a couple of alleys from their warehouse-- the barest nod--

\--and they took off, in opposite directions. They had spoken of this, but only once or twice; the plan, they had decided, was to split up, shake off as many of their pursuers as possible, and meet back up, but the plan had been vague, as they suspected that like most plans, it would fall apart on contact with the enemy. For instance, Layton had considered at length the possibility of taking to the roofs to foil pursuers, but that was clearly where most of them already were. He'd expected the police to be the first at their doorstep, but these fellows weren't in uniform, hadn't the look of officials. Had they resorted directly to unofficial channels? Paul was going to insist that Layton owed him a tenner, though Layton was positive he’d never actually agreed to that bet. 

There were at least three behind him. No gunshots yet, but they were in pursuit now; they’d obviously figured out the game was up. He wouldn’t want to stay in the warehouse district. There was nearly nobody here; they could do anything they wanted with no witnesses. Then again (he ducked around a tight corner; it caused them almost no difficulties), bystanders could also be placed in danger, even deliberately used as hostages. Especially if there were few enough of them. His best bet would be to head as quickly as possible to as populated an area as possible.

There was a dark-clothed figure up ahead of him; he changed course and ducked to his right, shoving a rubbish bin in his wake. But another was ahead of him, and he’d seen them on the roofs--

Nothing for it. He caught on to a fire escape and headed up anyway. There were indeed two on other roofs, but they were behind him; he could get at least a couple of blocks closer to the city before he was forced to head back down.

He made it across three roofs before the streets grew too wide for a remotely safe attempt at crossing. He looked around; there had to be another fire escape-- and there it was, beyond the stairwell. 

He made it down two flights of stairs before he realised that another thug awaited him below; he kicked down the ladder, which struck the man in the shoulder, and leapt down the last few feet, hitting the ground running. 

What did he have? No smoke-flasks, a little money, a pocket-knife, a watch. He paused long enough to pluck a bent pipe from the rubbish-- heavy enough for lead, as he’d hoped-- and ran for Faire street. He could see people crossing by there--

Someone plucked at his arm. He whirled, swinging the pipe, and caught the man in the stomach. He thought he might have heard the crack of a rib. He wasn’t certain; he’d only heard it from the other side before. But this was not the time to think about that. There were still others. He hit the man once more, but though the man was down, he grabbed the pipe from Layton’s hands, and he didn’t have the time to attempt to retrieve it. He turned, heading into the street.

He wasn’t sure which way to go, and instinctively turned right. More people were going that direction, and it would lead him to an even busier thoroughfare. There were few enough people that he was able to make good time, though he got strange looks along the way, and--

\--and that was probably a problem. He heard shouts behind him; “Watch where you’re going!” It would cost him time, but he risked a quick look back. At least three, and gaining quickly. At this pace, they might catch up with him before he made it to the avenue.

He looked back ahead, for any options, anything he could use. Alleys were a bad idea and hard to come by. Though there was a cafe up ahead--

That was an idea; he toppled the tables behind him as he passed. And he knew the corner up ahead; a building with multiple stores as tenants. He ducked into the flower shop, out into the corridor, through the furniture shop, and he’d made it to the avenue.

He couldn’t stop now. He crossed the street at the corner (he could hear Paul yelling in his mind that jaywalking was the last crime he should be concerned about, but being struck by a car would not help matters) and doubled back to the left, keeping as close to the wall as he could. He couldn’t keep running, and it would certainly hinder him from blending in. Was there any chance of that? A good thing he wasn’t wearing his hat. 

There was shouting from the other side of the street. He looked back; he’d gained ground, but they were headed in his direction, bowling people over as they went. Perhaps it had been irresponsible to bring them into a populated area. But what choice did he have?

He should run, but it would draw more attention, and his heart was racing; he could barely get enough air. He had a feeling he should save some capacity for later. There was a streetlight up ahead; should he wait to cross, or--

“There he is!”

He couldn’t wait to cross. He turned right instead, running again, fighting his body’s protests. There was a screeching of tyres behind him, a shout-- an accident, perhaps? This was why one followed proper crosswalk etiquette.

_You’re an idiot, Layton!_ he could almost hear Paul rail at him. Fair enough. But the turn had taken him away from heavy foot traffic again. He looked both ways, and crossed again. The blocks were long going this direction. Mostly flats, and a few stores; he turned at Deacon’s restaurant on a sudden hunch, ducking around a delivery truck. He wasn’t sure Paul would ever choose to come back to this place, but it was worth checking, and perhaps he’d at least have time to catch his breath. He rounded the corner--

\--and nearly ran into someone; he started to reflexively apologize before he realised the man he’d nearly bowled over was Paul. “Paul! Are you all right?”

Paul was wheezing; he glared at him. “No! I’ve still-- got two of the bastards-- on my trail.”

“I’ve three,” said Layton, his heart sinking. He looked around the alley for improvised weaponry. No crates, nor heavy bars; a few broken bottles, but those would only be useful at close range-- 

A shot rang through the alley; Layton grabbed Paul’s arm and bundled him up the fire escape.

“We’ll be trapped up--”

“I’ve an idea,” gasped Layton.

“You’d goddamned better--”

Most of the men were still at rooftop level; this posed the danger of making them easier targets. But if Layton remembered right, if he remembered right-- 

They reached the next corner of the building; Layton looked down. 

“Oh, _no_ ,” said Paul.

“Have you a better idea?”

“No,” said Paul, clearly very unhappy about that, and jumped off the ledge. Layton followed after; as cautiously as he could; it was still a decent drop to the roof of the lorry below, and the last thing he needed was an injured leg.

“If this thing doesn’t start moving--” said Paul, but was interrupted when it did, and the rest of his sentence quickly devolved into swearing as he struggled to stay on.

“They were just finishing up the delivery when I rounded the corner,” said Layton, pressing himself close to the roof. This wasn’t going to be sustainable, but it should at least buy them a little time, a little misdirection.

“Layton, this thing is probably going to head for a bloody motorway--”

“Then we’ll have to get off before that.”

“We’ve only got a few red lights before it gets there! What do we do if it doesn’t stop?!”

“I don’t know,” said Layton. “Perhaps we can climb down the sides. Rap at the cab. Beg the driver’s mercy. I don’t _know_ , Paul!”

“Bloody hell,” said Paul. Layton looked ahead; the lorry passed through an intersection without stopping. “Where are we. Where are we. If it’s headed for the A-23-- we’ve got-- four left.”

Another passed by. Layton took a deep breath. Whatever happened, he was certainly going to need it.

A long block; a harrowing curve. Another light passed overhead. Another was approaching, and flickering amber. “Don’t be an idiot,” Paul hissed at the driver. “Bloody--”

Layton shut his eyes in relief as the lorry slowed down. “Come on,” he told Paul as it came to a stop, and dropped down the side nearest the pavement, slowing his fall with the railings at the side as much as he could (which was unfortunately little). He looked around; there was no sign of their pursuers--

\--except a flicker of black many rooftops away that could just be a bird. He wasn’t going to count on that. “Come on,” he said, and pushed Paul along.

“Excuse me, some of us had further to fall!” Paul snapped. “And can’t keep _running_ like this! And now we’re in bloody gang territory--”

“Are we?” That might be an idea. “Which?”

“I don’t have a goddamned map, Layton--”

But Layton thought he might remember. “This way,” he said, and pulled Paul east.

“Why are we going _deeper_ into gang territory?!”

“Our options are limited,” said Layton. “And I have an idea.”

“Is it a good idea?”

“I am altogether uncertain.”

“Fantastic.” But Paul didn’t have the breath to argue. It wouldn’t be much further. If they were still there-- if they maintained their lead--

Here it was. Layton jumped the fence and knocked at the imposing black door.

A man in a vaguely military uniform and dark sunglasses opened the door, flanked by a shorter man behind him. Layton had no doubt that both were armed. “You’ve the wrong address,” said the tall guard, bluntly.

“My name is Professor Hershel Layton,” said Layton, ignoring the strangled noises Paul was making. “I seek an audience with your leader, Mr. Swift.”

“You’re having me on,” said the short guard.

“You remember the notice--” said the tall one.

“Anyone could say they were--”

“And would just anyone know the boss’s name, Finch?”

“It is a matter of some urgency,” said Layton, “and he would not be happy to learn that you had turned me away.”

The tall guard looked him over. "Here, then," he said, and pulled something from his pocket. He tossed it Layton's way. A sliding-block puzzle.

"Jesus Christ," said Paul.

"If you are Professor Layton," said the tall guard, "that should pose no problem for you."

"Layton, if our only recourse is the puzzle mafia," said Paul, "I think I might prefer death."

"Shh." Layton studied the puzzle a moment more, then began to shift the blocks. Hardly a particularly thorny example of the genre. One with so few blocks was basically an introduction to the field. Fifteen moves, and he handed the puzzle back to the guards.

"Oh, come on," said the small one.

"The rules are the rules."

"But anyone can solve a--"

"Rules," said the taller one, "are rules. And the rules state that we are to hold this gentleman and his friend in custody until the leader is free to contact them."

"Ugh," said the short one, and opened the doors. "Come on, then. This way."

Paul looked as if he were about to enter the lion's jaws. It was possible he had a point, but Layton grabbed his hand and dragged him in anyway.

The corridors were surprisingly nondescript; it could have been any recently built office building. The guard led them to a wooden door, and courteously opened it for them. "If you could wait in here," he said, "the director will be with you at his earliest convenience."

"Lovely," said Paul.

Layton tugged him over the threshold. "Thank you very much," he told the guard. "We greatly appreciate your assistance."

The guard gave him a skeptical look. "Rules are rules," he said again. "I am doing my duty, and nothing more."

The door closed behind him, and Layton looked at the room. They'd gone to some trouble to spare it the appearance of a holding cell. The clean lines of the couches could simply be modern. The bolts that affixed the coffee table to the floor were subtly hidden. Many people were eschewing picture frames these days, though most didn't, as far as he was aware, affix the pictures directly to the wall. There were even magazines on the table. 

"What the hell drivel is this? It might actually _be_ their torture chamber." Paul shoved the magazines to one side of the table and threw himself down into one of the chairs.

"Targent very probably does not have an actual torture chamber," said Layton. "They are scientists--"

"Come on--"

"--and all the latest scientific studies cast great doubts upon its efficacy as a means of procuring information."

That surprised a grudging laugh out of Paul. After giving the room one more once-over-- he shouldn't be surprised that all the pictures were of waterfowl-- Layton sat down in the other chair. It didn't seem particularly amenable to relaxing, but then, it was hard to judge; neither was he.

"Right," said Paul. "I think it's about time you explained yourself."

"Oh?" said Layton, without much hope it would buy him more than time. It was a fair enough question.

"Layton, you took us to the heart of an international crime syndicate--"

"Alleged international crime syndicate--"

"You get off that nonsense right now--"

"I've been told they may have reformed," Layton offered.

"Do you actually believe it?"

"Well, they still have a sizable and militant presence, so I must admit I have harbored doubts," said Layton.

"Thank god, I was beginning to wonder if you were incurable. As I was saying, you took us to the heart of an international crime syndicate, which was stalking you last I recall--"

"That ended quite some time ago--"

"--and I'm sure they've been sending you Christmas cards ever since; Layton, you took us to the heart of an international crime syndicate and you got us through the doors!"

"Yes," Layton was forced to concede.

"For Christ's sake, just tell me the bloody story already! Because by god, if you don't, I'll have nothing better to do than invent creative means to pry it out of you."

"You could try forcing the door instead," Layton suggested.

"Yes, because I quite enjoy getting shot. No thank you, I am _not_ trying to plot an escape route from the international crime syndicate blind. Spill it. Now."

Layton sighed. "All right," he said, and wondered where to begin. With Bronev? He didn't want to dive that deep so soon. Perhaps with what Paul had already seen for himself. "How much do you recall of it already?"

"Well, it's obviously something to do with all that Azran nonsense you were involved in, given the uniforms," said Paul. "And I imagine Boa Fop too."

"Descole."

"Whatever. I imagine it must have heated up after that nonsense with your old friend Randall."

"Yes, shortly afterward." Layton sighed. "Right. I might as well begin with the letter from Desmond Sycamore."

"Oh, Christ, another archaeologist." Paul rolled his eyes. "This will go downhill in a hurry."

"You're familiar with the name?"

"He was one of the favourite rivals of the Gressenheller archaeology department."

Layton wouldn't have described it like that, but now that he thought about it, he did remember the name being bandied about then once or twice, a mention of how someone would beat him at the next conference, or a wistful regret they couldn't get him as an assistant-- or, later, as a professor. "But you weren't in the archaeology department...?"

"I hung about on the periphery," Paul muttered.

Perhaps as Claire had started to frequent the area more? Or no, he'd also been familiar with Andrew; he must have taken a course or two. Layton wondered why, but Paul was glaring at him, and he doubted he would tolerate a digression. "At any rate, he sent me a letter saying he had found a living mummy from the Azran civilization, frozen in ice."

"If it was frozen, how the devil did he know it was alive?"

A good question. "I assume he'd found a way to detect a heartbeat through the ice."

"You didn't ask?"

"I fear I don't recall; matters became somewhat hectic rather quickly. As soon as we had managed to free her from the ice, Targent was upon us. They even managed to abduct the girl briefly--"

"Oh, god," Paul muttered.

"--before we were able to rescue her. She explained that her name was Aurora, and that she was the emissary of the Azran people--"

"They just so happened to put an ambassador on ice, eh?"

Layton elected to ignore this. "--and that she held the key to rediscovering the Azran legacy. The--"

"What Azran legacy?"

"She wasn't particularly specific," Layton admitted. "Memory problems."

"Oh, _god_."

"We would need to find five artefacts and bring them to a particular chamber to unlock the Azran legacy, and hopefully Aurora's memories as well." Layton decided that the particulars of the egg hunt were probably unnecessary, and a lengthier story only seemed to invite more heckling anyway. "Targent were, of course, also hunting these artefacts, and we encountered them at every turn--"

"How did they know where they were?"

"Why-- Paul, how many professors did you drive to early retirement?"

"Three," said Paul. "So far. Jury's out on you."

Layton wondered why he hadn't expected Paul to have an answer to that. "At any rate, we had little trouble acquiring the eggs, despite their chase; though they did manage to switch one out with a fake."

"How did they manage to create a fake that would convince two expert archaeologists?"

This one Layton had an answer for. "They're an _archaeological_ international crime syndicate, Paul."

" _Madre di dio!_ " Paul jumped. "What the devil have you gotten me into here?!"

" _Now_ you're alarmed?"

"I can deal with international crime syndicates," said Paul. "Archaeologists, however, are the bane of my existence."

"I assume I am no exception to this rule."

"Were you awake at any point within the last three years?!"

Fair enough. "At any rate--"

"Gotten us in bed with the _archaeology mafia_ , what in hell--"

Layton ignored him. "--having discovered the fake--"

"Why would they replace _one_ with a fake? Why replace it at all?"

"--we discovered that it was at Targent's headquarters--"

"Well, I suppose that's one way to lure you there, but--"

"--and if you'd stop interrupting, I would simply _explain_ to you that it was a trap to lure us there."

Paul rolled his eyes. "So obviously you broke in and stole the thing back."

"No, we broke in and negotiated its return over a puzzle challenge."

Paul stared at him. "You've finally mastered the art of sarcasm? Please tell me you've finally mastered the art of sarcasm."

"Paul--"

"God Almighty, I am _trapped_ here with these people."

"You know, I could very, very easily find a puzzle to solve instead--"

"All right! All right." Paul massaged his forehead. "Please tell me that they actually wanted you to solve the puzzle."

"Well, they managed to tail us with little difficulty, so I suppose the question of who exactly created the key and opened the door was largely immaterial."

"Thank god," Paul sighed. "I was worried you'd delivered us into the hands of a gang of incompetents."

"The leader, Leon Bronev, also wanted to attempt to coerce me into joining them," said Layton, "so that was a fringe benefit."

"Sensible enough. You'd be a prize recruitment for any right-thinking archaeological mafia.” Paul shuddered at the words. “There’s an oxymoron if ever I heard one. Dare I ask what tack he took?"

"Threatening my parents," said Layton. "The old story-- such a fine family you have here; wouldn't it be a shame if anything happened to it?"

"Tell me you didn't fall for it."

Layton winced at the memory. "Professor Sycamore reminded me that Bronev was almost certainly lying."

"Good on him."

"Having retrieved the eggs, we were able to create the key," Layton continued, "which also returned some of Aurora's memories. She became quite distraught, saying that the legacy of the Azran must not be rediscovered; but of course at that point, there was little choice in the matter. There were too many people in the chase. Professor Sycamore unfortunately chose that moment to reveal that he was also known as Jean Descole--"

"Boa Fop?!"

"Paul, he was known as Descole. Please stop calling him Boa Fop." Layton felt wrong even repeating the name. Either of them, really.

"We haven't been formally introduced," snapped Paul.

Much as he would like to see his brother again, Layton hoped that day would never come. "At any rate, Paul, he took the key and ran."

"Why the devil would he do that? He had you fooled well enough. Why bother to reveal himself when he could--"

"You'd have to ask him, Paul," Layton interrupted. He felt horribly uncivil, but there was only so much he could take.

"Perhaps I shall." 

Paul was cracking his knuckles. Layton decided to ignore this and move on. "At any rate, we found him at the door to the sanctuary--"

"If everyone knew where the bloody place was, what was the point of--"

"And unfortunately Bronev was there as well," Layton continued. "With the help of Emmy, who turned out to be a spy--"

"Oh, that's what happened to the competent one."

Layton hesitated for a moment, but decided he was better off not addressing that. "--he took Aurora and headed into the sanctuary. Descole suggested that we join forces to stop him--"

"Would've saved himself quite the headache if he'd done that earlier--"

Layton massaged his forehead. "--but he was injured en route, whereupon he informed me that he was actually my brother, and Bronev our father."

After a few moments, Layton realised that Paul hadn't actually said anything to that. He looked up; Paul was staring at him, agape. He'd finally struck the man speechless? Thank god.

"Run that by me one more time," said Paul.

"Bronev and his wife had been kidnapped by Targent for their Azran expertise," said Layton. "Their children, myself and Descole, were left behind."

"All right... seems odd to abandon such leverage, but children are awful, so all right..."

"We naturally found enormous difficulty in fending for ourselves. My brother managed to make quite a name for himself in his scholastic pursuits, so my parents came around to adopt him."

"A _name_..."

"But all they knew was that they wanted to adopt Hershel Bronev. They didn't know who that was."

"How..."

"And since they only wanted to adopt one child--"

"What--"

"--my brother told them I was Hershel, as I was too young to be left alone." Layton leaned back, closing his eyes to await the inevitable Socratic onslaught.

It didn't come for a surprisingly long time. "Layton?" said Paul, sounding unexpectedly composed.

"Yes?"

"Do you have any idea how many things are wrong with that story?"

"Paul, it's what happened."

"I don't mean factually. Well, that too, to be honest. But it's practically an afterthought. Do you have _any idea_ how many things are _wrong_ with that story?"

"You have been quite adept at pointing them out." Massaging his temples wasn't helping, but it saved him from having to open his eyes.

"You hadn't _inquired_...?"

"It isn't a subject I've preferred to dwell on." Which was perhaps a mistake, and perhaps one he would have to rectify. Why had his parents only been willing to adopt one child? How had they known a child's name but had no notion of his age? How had no one corrected their mistaken impression? Why had they chosen not to tell him about his former family? Had his mother's paranoia been as unfounded as it had always seemed? Why had Targent kidnapped both of their parents but not their children in the first place? An absurd number of questions leapt out at him upon further scrutiny. But he didn't want to think about that now. He had neither the energy nor the time.

"Christ." Paul let out a long breath. "All right. Fine. Bronev was kidnapped and so was his wife. At some point Bronev gave in to brainwashing and turned leader of the organisation which kidnapped him. I assume something happened to the wife?"

"Died," Layton said, shortly.

"And yet he turned wholeheartedly to the Targent cause. Christ. This genius is never winning a Nobel."

"I can hardly disagree."

"At no point did he ever choose to inquire to the fate of his abandoned children--"

"He might have checked on Desmond. The man's family did die under mysterious circumstances."

"--ouch. I assume you were too young to remember your brother, and naturally your parents were loath to bring the subject up."

Layton winced. 

"All right. I understand. There are many obvious factual and ethical problems I won't bother to point out, but I understand. You may as well finish it out, though."

Layton sighed. "Where were we? The sanctuary. Bronev had beaten us to the inner sanctum. He demanded the Azran legacy. Aurora told him that the only way to unlock the Azran legacy was to stab her through the heart."

"Upon which he saw the _blindingly obvious trap_ and sensibly demanded to know what she was playing at," Paul suggested, though without much hope.

That startled a laugh out of Layton. Granted, the man had the advantage of hindsight, but he was starting to wonder if his rather unique perspective might have afforded some advantages. "I fear not."

"Upon which he realised that there were, in fact, depths he would not sink to, and dropped his weapon in a fit of pathos?"

"Alas," said Layton.

"Upon which you swooped in to stop him as a dashing gentleman does."

"I fear the distance was too great to be covered in a swoop."

"Don't tell me he actually sodding did it."

"He actually did it," Layton confirmed.

"Jesus Christ. If you're going to lack all moral fibre, you've got to at least not be a complete idiot!"

Layton suspected he knew which of the two Paul claimed to possess, and he found it a sad thought. And perhaps not quite as accurate as he had feared.

"Right," sighed Paul. "So. Did just the fortress or whatever it was begin to collapse, or did the Azran take it as a complete indictment of our wretched race and start up the doomsday machine?"

"It was more an onslaught of attacking robots, but I must say your predictions are disturbingly accurate."

"It doesn't take a bloody genius. The dots are pretty close together. For instance, given that we are currently not sitting in a ruined patch of rubble-- or at least nothing any worse than you'd expect from the east end-- I can brilliantly deduce that there was either a flaw in their machines or a failsafe."

"That does take a bit of the suspense from the situation." Layton found he was smiling faintly.

"Which was it, then?"

"Well, as it turned out, Aurora was also a machine--"

"Shocking--"

"And she informed us that the machines were Golems that had been created by the Azran, and turned upon their creators. The Azran had frozen them, but now they had been unleashed. The Golems could be stopped by interrupting the path of certain rays of light--"

"Failsafe."

"--which would unfortunately require people to stand themselves in their way, which would prove fatal--"

"Definite failsafe." Paul nodded.

"What makes you say that?"

"You're still here, for one," said Paul. "And don't try to tell me you didn't go leaping in."

"Well, yes, but Aurora interceded on our behalf to--"

"--activate the failsafe," Paul finished.

"It wasn't a--"

"The doomsday machine activated by ostensibly sacrificing an innocent just happened to be breakable by suspiciously conveniently-accessible and non-obviously-lethal self-sacrifice by some greater number of individuals than it took to stab the girl?"

"I..." Dear god. Looking back, whether or not they'd been intended to survive the experience... "Of course it was a failsafe."

Paul cocked an eyebrow. "Did you really not realise it was a failsafe until just now?"

"No, I simply enjoy giving you reasons to gloat." 

"As if I'd be so lucky." Paul snorted. 

"It was a trying time and those beams of light did rather hurt."

"Oh, I'm sure." Paul rolled his eyes.

"Give it a rest, Paul."

"Right. So, after the attack robots were magically called off--"

"Golems."

"Golems-- wait. Weren't you saying this whole damned thing had been caused by the Azran creating the Golems and having some absurd war with them?"

"Essentially."

"And now they were doing their bidding again?"

"In a--"

"Better brainwashed this time? Or just infuriated enough to not check we were the same species before tearing us down?"

Layton massaged his forehead. "I... am afraid I could not say."

"Either way, the hell with these bloody Azran. We're better off well shot of the idiots."

"I admit that has played a factor in my decision to leave them and their artefacts to their rest," said Layton.

"Hang on, that's no reason not to scrounge off the artefacts. Science is science, and we could hardly do worse."

Layton raised an eyebrow. "Couldn't we?"

Paul considered this. "Fair cop."

"I didn't expect such uncharacteristic optimism to last."

"I'm not quite sure what I was thinking."

"At any rate, we survived, the sanctuary crumbled, and my 'father' was arrested. There you have it." 

"Hmm. Tossed him in Newgate, I assume." Paul raised a knowing eyebrow.

"If you're suspecting that fact has something to do with Clive's continued survival," Layton sighed, "I very much fear the answer is yes." 

"So that's the favour you called in."

"'Favour' seems the wrong way to describe it. It's not as if the man stole my bicycle." Layton folded his arms. 

"Fair enough."

Layton looked up at that. There was something unexpected in Paul's voice, though he had a hard time placing it. A lack of rancor. "You sound almost as if you understand."

Paul sighed. "Don't tell me you were expecting some smarmy 'he'll always be your father' nonsense from _me_."

"No, but..."

"...What the hell, we've nothing but time, and I honestly had expected you to be the 'he'll always be your father' sort. If I'm safe from that line of idiocy, at least, maybe it's worth a go." Paul sat up, folding his arms, and staring fixedly at some particular spot on the wall several feet below and to the right of Layton's head. With a deep breath, Paul began.

"After certain unfortunate incidents that we have no need to revisit," said Paul, "I found myself with certain burning passions and a dearth of funds with which to pursue them. I immediately delved into research to solve the problem. My mother had told me certain tales of my father that I never actually believed. I had known her to be a wild fabulist ever since I could remember. It's a fact I don't remember ever _learning_ ; I just always knew that it was true. Oh, not in a harmful way," said Paul; his eyes had shifted just enough to see Layton's face. "I'm sure she believed most of it herself. The rent money would turn up. A little hunger was good for the soul. And someday, the maternal instinct would come upon her like a bout of typhus, and she would take me back, and then we would both be happy." Paul snorted. "You can hardly blame her for that last one. God knows she must have been told often enough."

Layton blinked rapidly at that. Paul didn't seem particularly inclined to give him time to process this sudden flood of biographical information, though, and Layton found he could probably understand that. "However, in this particular case, certain facts seemed to accord with her version of events. So south I went, to the old bastard's estate. Indeed he had one, though it wasn't much to look at. Neither was he, at that point. Rough living had taken its toll on him-- or that's what most people took their implausible 'consumption' talk to mean." Paul scoffed. "I have some other ideas."

Layton could well guess at what they were. "But at any rate, all I could meet with was his mother. She wasted little time in explaining that my mother was a lying whore, that the son of a lying whore was inherently disqualified from any connection to her family's good name, and that she would pay me a great deal of money to make me go away." He smirked, eyes distant. "I assume that the self-contradiction is not lost on you either."

No; the logical conclusion was obvious. How heartbreaking. "What did you do?"

Paul scoffed. "What the hell else would any sensible man do? I took the money and have proclaimed myself Don Paolo as loudly as I possibly could ever since."

Oh. _Oh_. "She named you after him."

Paul grimaced. "She was never accused of being a particularly creative woman."

So that was why he was so insistent upon his title. Layton had thought it a mere affectation, and now felt slightly ashamed of it. "But why..." said Layton, slowly, feeling for what he wanted to say. "...would you give up the name she gave you for the one he refused to?"

"Well, why would you, Hershel?"

"That--" Layton sputtered. "That is entirely different."

"Is it, now?"

"I chose the name my parents gave me," said Layton, severely.

"Because your old man's a worthless bastard. He certainly sounds it." Paul nodded. "But what did your mum ever do, anyway?"

"That--" Was rather a good question. All he knew about the woman was that she had died. In all of these years, he'd never even thought to inquire further.

In choosing to reject his father, he'd rejected his mother, too.

"I chose to be Don Paolo," said Paul, quietly. "To the world, I'll damn well continue to be. But you, I've given up on. You can keep calling me Paul."

Layton looked up at him, startled.

"It's not as if I've had any luck in stopping you," Paul muttered.

"...Thank you," said Layton.

"At any rate, my point is, it's perfectly possible to have more than one name at once." Paul folded his arms. "Still bloody rude of you, though."

"I suppose it was," Layton admitted. He simply hadn't wanted to be working with Don Paolo, Criminal Mastermind. He'd preferred to think that man a persona, a flight of fancy, a brief part played by an otherwise reasonable man. It was both far more and far less true than he had thought. "It was easier to think of you that way, especially at first."

Paul rolled his eyes. "Oh, come, now," said Layton. "I've heard your excuses for the Ferris wheel--"

"It's hardly my fault you idiots couldn't conceive of walking uphill--"

"--that being among them, yes; but the tower--"

"That architecture was in no way up to code!"

A fair point, though that hardly excused expecting it to stand up to assault. "What's your excuse for drugging Flora, then?"

"I don't have one," growled Paul. "I was lazy and stupid and it seemed the easiest option that would also hurt you. I'm not proud of it. You're a hard person to hurt."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that."

"Hush up, you stoic bastard. I wanted a reaction and it's devilish hard to get one from you. It was petty and selfish because that's what I am." Paul grabbed the pillow from the chair and began to fluff it up with considerable violence.

"I think there's more to you than that," said Layton.

"I've been forced to put some of it aside in the interest of justice. And my own sanity. Such as that ever was. God damn it." Paul shoved the pillow back behind him. "Why the devil are we bringing Folsense into this, anyway?"

"I was curious about the current calibration of your moral compass," Layton admitted. He saw no reason not to. "We never did speak of it."

"Well, that's hardly a reason to start now!" Paul folded his arms. "Then what's your excuse for taking Luke by a whorehouse so many times, anyway?"

"What--" Layton sputtered. "What on earth are you talking about?”

“You don’t remember that idiotic place with the vampire and the hallucinogens? Was that just a normal Tuesday to you, then?”

Layton shook his head. “The Folsense cabaret?"

"Cabaret my eye," Paul snorted.

"That was not a--"

"Yes, Layton, yes it was."

"It was not!"

"What the devil do you think the difference is?"

Layton folded his arms stiffly. "Having never patronized either..."

"You'd clearly be an expert then, wouldn't you?"

"Furthermore," said Layton, "as the city was in fact largely hallucination, it was not, in point of fact, actually either. It is equally possible that we are both correct; as we created the city in our minds from the influence of the photographs we saw, it is actually quite possible that what I saw as a cabaret, you saw as--"

"Oh, so the whorehouse was really in my heart all along? Come off it--"

Layton laughed, with an intensity that caught him by complete surprise. The sheer absurdity of it, he supposed. Routed from his temporary home, in the heart of an international crime syndicate, here with his former self-proclaimed arch-nemesis, arguing about the nature of an imaginary building. What other response was possible, at this point?

He'd probably offended Paul; but no, the other man was quiet, a measuring look in his eyes. "You don't laugh enough," he said, quietly.

"I haven't laughed this much in years," said Layton, and was surprised at just how true it was. He'd known contentment, moments of joy, peace and tranquility, satisfaction; but when had he ever laughed this way? Mad times with Randall? Had he ever, really? Definitely not since…

He sighed. His life was really quite an absurd tangle of interrelated catastrophes, if he stopped to think about it. “You hardly seem to be enjoying yourself, either.”

“Never was much good at that.”

“How sad.”

Paul rolled his eyes. “Life is suffering, Layton. You hadn’t figured that out yet?”

There had been times that the thought had crossed his mind. “It’s considerably more than that, Paul.”

“Of course. Otherwise the suffering would lose its sting.”

“The profundity of your pessimism is quite amazing.”

“I’ve yet to see any evidence to the contrary.” Paul folded his arms. “You’ve heard the one about the history of Russia in five words?”

“I’m not sure I have, actually.”

“And then, things got worse.”

Layton knew he shouldn’t laugh, but he was just familiar enough with semi-modern history that he couldn’t stifle a chuckle.

“It isn’t actually funny,” said Paul. “Things are going directly to hell and they have no chance of improving in the foreseeable future.”

“When is amusement needed more?”

Paul fell quiet, as if he were actually considering that. “Layton--” he said, after a moment, but he was interrupted by a sharp rap at the door.

“Mr. Swift requests the pleasure of your company,” said the man who opened it.

Layton stood, trying not to wince outwardly at the ache in his legs. He did not want to show weakness here, and he was already so very tired. “By all means,” he said, and followed the man out. Paul trailed after; Layton turned his head just enough to see him out of the corner of his eye, his eyes darting back and forth along the corridors. A calculating look, and Layton wondered what he was calculating. Whatever the specifics, he was glad of it.

They entered the office; it was nowhere near as large or opulent as Bronev’s room in the Nest, but then, this was a satellite branch, and while Layton hadn’t known Swift in the slightest, the man had seemed a bit less inclined to decadence. Still, the carpet was thick, the dark wood of the furniture immaculately polished, and he had little doubt that the blank screens on the wall were the top of their line. 

Swift was standing behind his desk; the man was still wearing sunglasses, so his look was entirely inscrutable. He still had that orange ascot, though he’d improved his tailoring, and his hair was pulled back into slightly more controlled chaos. “Professor Layton,” he said. “I hadn’t thought to meet you again.”

“Nor I, sir,” said Layton. “Thank you very much for your courtesy.”

“My respect for Mr. Bronev demands no less,” said Swift. “By all means, sit. Tell me, what brings you to our door?”

Layton sat, feeling more awkward than he had in quite some time. “I assume you keep up with the news?”

Swift grimaced. “Inasmuch as I can. I always did find the past more absorbing.”

“But you’ve heard of the…” Layton sighed at having to use the moniker. “The Enigmatic Gentleman.”

“In passing, yes.”

“That gentleman is me,” said Layton. 

“Ah,” said Swift. “I suppose this explains your flight. And your pursuers.”

“I fear it does,” said Layton. “They had discovered our location, and we were forced to flee. Which is what drove us to seek sanctuary here.”

“Well.” Swift leaned forward, steepling his fingers. “We can provide you with security--”

“No, thank you,” Layton said.

Swift was silent. “Your pardon?”

“No, thank you,” Layton repeated. “I very much appreciate your kindness in giving us shelter. No doubt it has confounded our pursuers terribly. We will leave out of a back entrance, if you have one you are willing to escort us to, and our ways shall part here.”

Swift frowned. “I can hardly be so inhospitable to Leon Bronev’s son.”

Layton paused, considering his words carefully. He was tired enough that something inapt might well spill out. “You’ve already done far more than honour dictates, and I thank you for it.”

“We could offer you protection,” said Swift. “We could offer you many things.”

“You could,” said Layton, “but if you did, I would be forced to gracefully decline, so I would prefer if that offer stayed in the realm of the hypothetical.”

“And yet--”

“The man said no,” said Paul. “Take a lesson from me. Don’t try to argue with him. You’ll just end up strangling yourself with your own neckwear.”

“If you are hoping that I can be an asset to you,” said Layton, “my time and attention are quite thoroughly occupied at the moment. Furthermore, harboring me for any longer would attract the attention of government entities you would prefer to escape the notice of. Even were I willing, this would be an inopportune time for all involved. Again, I thank you very much for your assistance. But I must depart.”

Swift was silent. Layton tried to stop his hands from gripping the arms of his chair. “Fine,” said Swift. “But we will revisit this offer later.”

“I must warn you I will again decline,” said Layton, “but you are welcome to make a request at a more opportune time.” 

Swift pressed a red button on his desk; guards appeared at the door. “It’s inhospitable, but I fear I’ll need to blindfold you,” he said. “Trade secrets.”

“Of course,” said Layton, inclining his head.

“Jay. Kestrel. Blindfold these gentlemen and escort them… to the river, I think.”

“This had better not be an euphemism,” Paul muttered. Layton couldn’t disagree. The blindfold wrapped over his eyes was quite unnerving.

“Until we meet again, Professor Layton,” said Swift. There was a tug on his arm, and Layton followed its lead.

It was possible, he was sure, to try to trace their movements; he was fairly certain that was why their path seemed to double back on itself, to take sharp turns. However, he couldn’t bring himself to care. He wanted no part of Targent’s secrets. He didn’t care where their bolt-holes were. He would be just as happy to forget they existed, even had he not such enormous problems to be distracted by. And it was a long walk, and he was so very tired.

And then the blindfold was yanked off, and he was beside Paul in a blind, dirty alleyway, blinking owlishly at London’s evening haze. He turned to thank their escorts, but they were, unsurprisingly, already gone.

“Well,” said Paul. “That went better than expected.”

"Thank you,” said Layton. At Paul’s oddly affronted look, he added, “For backing me up. I was afraid you'd think me prideful or foolish."

Paul snorted. "What the devil is prideful or foolish about not getting in bed with the archaeology mafia?"

"Well. There is that." He laughed, softly, and they walked toward the street, toward the lamps, toward the noise of cars.

They emerged, and Layton looked for the signposts. He found himself unilluminated. The name of the street seemed familiar, one he was fairly certain was in London, but it was not one he had ever traversed. He wasn’t certain where they were, but that was surmountable in many ways. More disorienting was the realisation that he hadn’t the faintest idea where they were going. If the warehouse was compromised, he could hardly risk trusting his new flat, and he certainly couldn’t go home… 

"Where on earth do we go now?" said Layton. He'd never felt so lost in London, even on the day he saw it first.

"I'm trying to think," said Paul, voice softened around the edges by exhaustion. "Where they'll expect. Where they wouldn't expect."

"Excepting Targent."

"The archaeology mafia is not an option. Nor would I prefer the company of criminals. Some of 'em tend to commit crimes. Not to mention there's you. Bloody disaster that'd be. Jesus Christ, to even think it, you'd be turning half of 'em in or playing Robin Hood and it's not an option. Where wouldn't they expect."

"You're wandering," Layton murmured.

"Don't need a long-term solution. Just need one for tonight. Where they wouldn't expect." Paul let out a long breath. "Oh, bloody hell."

"You've an idea."

"I hate myself already," said Paul. "It's all I've got. Let's go."

Paul grabbed his hand; Layton was nonplussed, but followed. He didn't know these streets, was fairly certain they were headed west but had no idea what that might mean. 

"I just know that I'm going to hate myself for this," said Paul, mostly to himself, voice going hoarse. "It's going to turn into an absolute cluster and I will spend weeks wishing I'd come up with something better, like pitching a tent on a roof, or turning ourselves in, or throwing us into the Thames."

"Just where are you taking us?"

"The... theatre district," said Paul. Now he mentioned it, Layton was seeing a greater number of spotlit signs and marquees. 

"Does that really warrant such concern?"

"Where else should one be overdramatic?"

"Touche," said Layton.

"It's just... oh, forget it. Just act..." Paul paused, considering. "You know, you'll probably pass."

"As what?"

"An eccentric. Just stay calm, don't take offense, and when in doubt..." Paul snorted. "Try acting like your brother."

Layton had to admit the man was nothing if not theatrical. He wasn't even offended, though he might just have been too tired for that. "I'm not sure I have that particular level of dramatic poise within me."

"Few men do. Few people, for that matter. But give it a go. If pressed."

"I'll make my best attempt." He noticed that the composition of the people around them had changed; well-dressed people out on the town, workaday folks going quickly about their business, beggars and buskers, and people in far more eyecatching garb.

Paul took him by the arm and led him into what appeared to be a bar-- inasmuch as it appeared to be anything at first, between the fog and dimness and smoke. "What'll it be, gentlemen?" said the bartender, a wide-shouldered man in an unusual but immaculately tailored plum suit.

Paul took a handful of change from his pocket. "What's the strongest thing I can get for this?" he asked. The bartender snorted and took it, handing him a pint a few moments later. Paul sighed and took it.

"Do you happen to have any tea?" Layton asked. He was fairly certain he had enough in his pockets for that. "I fear I'll need to stay awake, and that will prove to be quite difficult.”

The bartender took the change he proffered and set him up with a cup and a teabag. Not Layton's preferred tea by far, but he'd certainly accept it. The bartender eyed them warily, as he picked up a glass to clean. "What brings you gentlemen here this evening?"

"Chaos and injustice," said Paul. 

Layton felt that required clarification. "We were... evicted from our old quarters."

"Forcibly."

Layton quirked a smile at that. It was still a bit of a surprise just how much he was getting to enjoy Paul's wit.

"Were you," said the bartender. Layton got the feeling they were being assessed, but he wasn’t sure what for, and had little energy to care.

"Certain parties disapproved of our ideology and behaviour," said Paul. Odd; usually it was Layton who stuck so close to the truth. Perhaps he was influencing the man.

"I see," said the bartender, and put down the glass. "No family to stay with?"

"Don't exactly keep in touch with family," said Paul. “His is even worse.”

“I realise you got off on the wrong foot with my brother, and that he can be quite difficult to deal with, but he truly isn’t so bad once you get to know him, and my parents are perfectly lovely. My real ones, anyway. Your description of the other set is perfectly accurate.” Layton took a sip of tea. He shouldn’t be babbling so, but he was so very tired.

“My aunt would have hated you,” said Paul. “But she hated everyone equally. Excepting the Tories. And the French. And particularly the Italians.”

“Did that prove a difficulty when you adopted your new moniker?”

“Well, I didn’t check the seismographs, so I can’t say whether she spun in her grave. But I think she’d have made an exception for me.”

Layton nodded wearily, with an apologetic nudge of Paul’s arm for inadvertently bringing up the topic. Their conversation had to sound quite absurd, but a bartender was probably accustomed to such things.

"Came here looking for family, then?” said the bartender, with an appraising look.

Paul sighed, looking utterly chagrined. “I am neither charitable nor inclined to accept charity,” he said, “but I find myself with little choice. I can pay our way. Just not tonight.”

“It’s hardly your sole responsibility,” said Layton. “We’re in this together, Paul.”

Paul rubbed his forehead. “My life is a trainwreck,” he muttered.

“As it happens,” said the bartender, “I do know of a lady with some rooms for let. She might be willing to put you up on credit for a night or two. Assuming you’re the right sort.”

“The right sort?” said Layton.

“Open-minded,” he said. “Won’t start trouble with her other tenants. Won’t call the coppers on victimless crimes.”

“That doesn’t sound unreasonable,” said Layton. Paul took a very large gulp of his drink.

The bartender scribbled an address on a scrap of paper and handed it to Paul. “No guarantees, of course,” he said. “I’d have your friend do the talking. She’s a weakness for pretty boys.”

“I’m hardly a boy,” objected Layton. Nor would he have chosen the term ‘pretty’, of all the odd descriptors--

“Oh, shut up, you bastard, you’ve hardly aged a day since I met you,” Paul growled, and finished off his drink.

“I can assure you that I--”

“I thank you profoundly,” said Paul to the bartender, “and I can promise that I will be a regular and lucrative patron should we settle anywhere in the area.”

“Stop pretending to be an alcoholic, Paul, I’ve kept an eye on that bottle--”

“Why the hell would you assume I only have the one?”

“--and it’s really an odd thing to aspire to so fervently.”

“But it would make my life so much easier.”

The bartender laughed, shaking his head, with an odd, appreciative smile. “Well, best of luck, gentlemen,” he said. “You’d best hurry if you don’t want to disturb her rest. If she does take a shine to you, send Madame Eleanor my regards.”

“By all means,” said Layton. “Thank you, sir.”

“Oh, don’t mention it,” said the bartender. “I might not be here had I not been done a good turn when I was out on the streets. I try to help others in a similar situation whenever I can.”

Layton nodded at that, gratefully, and headed for the door. “I appreciate it,” Paul said, a low embarrassed grumble.

“Good luck, you two!”

The door closed behind them. “Well, that was an unexpected stroke of good luck,” said Layton.

Paul stared at the sky. “You know,” he said, mostly to himself, “it’s not too late to pick the Thames.”

“It would be quite the walk,” said Layton, “and it’s a chilly night, so I’d suggest you decide now.”

Paul laughed at that, and started forward. “Someday,” he said, “just remember, I considered the Thames.”

“That’s quite concerning, Paul.”

“It won’t be later. What I mean is, I did try to avoid this. You remember that.”

“You’re not making any sense, Paul.”

“You’ll probably puzzle it out. You always puzzle it out. I don’t know how it’s taken this long.” Paul walked faster. “Christ, I’m talking too much.”

“Do you know where we’re headed?”

“I’ve a passing familiarity with the district. It isn’t far. Another block this way.” Paul looked back at him. “Are you ready?”

“Whatever for?”

“To…” Paul shook his head, giving up before he’d even begun. “Look, just try to look cute and don’t take any offense to anything.”

“I suppose actors are reputed to be an outrageous lot.”

“That they are.”

“But how am I to look ‘cute’?”

“Sleepy and bewildered should suffice just fine.”

Layton nodded. “Excellent. Nothing could be simpler.”

“Lost and needy should also come in handy.”

“Perfect.”

Paul rang the bell of a purple-painted door. It wasn’t long before it was opened by a large woman in heavy makeup, her hair in curlers, a bathrobe pulled over her silk dress. “Well, hello there,” she drawled, looking them over. “And who might you be?”

Paul nudged Layton, not too gently. Right; he was supposed to be the ‘pretty boy’. “I’m dreadfully sorry to bother you at this late hour,” he said, “but my companion and I are in desperate need of a room, and we were told we could ask here.”

Paul slapped his forehead; Layton wondered what he’d done wrong now. “Is that so,” said the woman. “And who told you that?” 

“The bartender,” said Layton, “at the… oh, dear, I fear I don’t remember the name of the place.”

“The Green Carnation,” Paul sighed.

“Thank you, Paul.”

“God is dead,” said Paul.

“We’ll be able to repay you,” Layton continued, “but I fear we haven’t anything to hand tonight. I hate to ask you for such a favour based solely on trust, but circumstances have left me no choice. I do apologise for troubling you, madame.”

“I see,” she said. “Well, then. Carson always did have a good eye…” She looked them over once more, then nodded. “Right. I can at least put you up for a night or two. Carson told you the house rules?”

“He mentioned not starting trouble with your other tenants,” said Layton, “which I can assure you should not be a hardship in any way.”

“Well, that’s the real bones of it.” She held the door open. “Come on in, then. The room’s on the fourth floor.”

“You have my eternal gratitude,” said Layton, with a respectful, weary nod. “Madame Eleanor, was it?”

“Yes, it is. And what might I call you boys?”

Layton considered the wisdom of providing a fake name, but was too exhausted to come up with one. “Layton, madame. Mr. Layton.”

“Oh, just bloody call me Paul,” said Paul. 

Madame Eleanor’s eyebrow raised, but she nodded, and smiled. “Well, then,” she said, and started up the stairs. A woman in an elaborate purple evening gown passed on their other side; “Oh, hello there,” she said. “New friends, Eleanor dear?”

“Well, we’ll see,” said the landlady. 

“I certainly hope so. I’m Marie,” she said. 

Layton nodded respectfully at her, tugging his hat. “Good evening, madame,” he said. It occurred to him a moment later that she had an unusually long and flowing beard, but that wasn’t any of his business, and at this point, it was entirely possible he was hallucinating it anyway. “A pleasure to meet you.”

“Well!” she said, with a bright smile. “A real gentleman! Now that’s a rare find.”

“Isn’t it just,” said Paul. 

“Well, I’ll let you get on with your business,” said Marie. “You poor things look like you’re asleep on your feet!”

“I fear your assessment is correct, madame, but I do hope we can be more properly acquainted in the future.”

“You’re going to be the death of me,” said Paul.

Marie giggled. “They’re adorable, Eleanor,” she said. “Goodnight!”

“Well,” said Eleanor, sounding vaguely satisfied. “Come on, then.”

There were still more stairs to go; Layton could catch sight of a few of the flat doors from it. One was decorated with a crescent moon and star; he saw a dark-skinned man holding another door for a pale redhead. It was possible, he thought, that Eleanor was providing a refuge for various people who found it difficult to live in broader society without being bothered by more parochial sorts. It explained the house rules, the wariness, the bartender’s odd qualification that she would require tenants who wouldn’t call the police for victimless crimes. Possibly some of Paul’s odd behaviour, too, if he’d had a sense of what was coming; the man appeared to be under the impression that Layton was a crusty, unbending old stick. Well. That was a relief. It shouldn’t be a problem at all.

“Here we are,” said Madame Eleanor, at the door to room 404. “One bedroom, and it’s a little shabby, but it’s clean and it’s serviceable.” She unlocked the door and opened it. Layton had to agree with her assessment; the purple wallpaper was peeling a bit at the edges, and the carpet was rather worn; the furniture was a bit scraped and battered, but all of it looked like it was holding together well enough. He ventured in far enough to test the couch; not the best replacement for a bed, but it would suffice. At this point, the floor would probably suffice. 

“Madame,” he said, “I do not know how we can possibly thank you for this.”

“Don’t cause any trouble,” she said, “and respect your neighbours. One or two have… various people who might kick up a fuss if they discovered where they live. No matter what story they spin, you’re not to tell anyone about this place, or who lives here. Is that understood?”

Layton nodded. “And if the fool tries,” said Paul, “I promise to stop him.”

“Paul…”

“As if you mightn’t be taken in by a sob story…” Paul pitched his voice high. “Oh, dear sir, my brother ran away and my parents are _so worried_ about him--”

“Having been forewarned, I’d certainly at least check with the boy before volunteering information,” Layton objected. “A gentleman does not casually break a confidence.”

Madame Eleanor smiled. “Well, then,” she said. “You poor things get some sleep. Everything else can be sorted in the morning.” She took a key on a purple ribbon from her pocket and placed it in Layton’s hand. “Goodnight, dearies.”

“Good night,” said Layton, “and thank you again for your kindness.”

She gave them a broad wink and shut the door behind her.

“Right,” said Paul, “let’s get this out of the way. As a gentleman, you are going to offer to take the sofa. As a reprobate, I will readily accept. We’ll work on getting our things in the morning, but I swear to god, if I don’t get to bed now I am going to fall over directly on the floor.” He headed for the bedroom.

“Paul?” Layton called.

“What part of _now_ \--”

“Thank you.”

Paul turned to look back at him. “The hell for?”

“You found us this place.”

“You got us away.” Paul folded his arms, looking more shifty than usual.

“And I’m thanking you.”

“You’ll reconsider that later.”

“Paul,” said Layton, “ _thank you._ ”

Paul was quiet for a moment. “You’re welcome,” he said, almost inaudibly, and immediately slammed the bedroom door behind him.

Why it had been so difficult to get Paul to accept a bit of gratitude, Layton didn’t know, and, to be perfectly honest, couldn’t bring himself in his current state of exhaustion to care. He filed it away as a puzzle for later, as he shed his outer layers of clothes, going through the familiar mental calculations of the least he could bother taking off without being cross with himself in the morning. That done, he curled up on the couch, pulling a pilled crochet blanket in a fetching shade of lavender around him. He wondered if the landlady had made it herself. He wondered if she would come to regret taking them in. He wondered if he really had the right to bring all this to anyone’s door.

But it was quiet, and still, and decorated like a home, and that was all that Layton needed at the moment. His eyes slipped shut, and he wondered no more.

\--


End file.
